


Morality is Relative

by Batwish



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: AceAro Rayla (the Dragon Prince), Callum is a hero at heart, Fighting, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Season 1 canon only, Self-Doubt, Violence, self-depreciating thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:18:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16157030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwish/pseuds/Batwish
Summary: In the time since they had set out on their journey, Callum got used to running from angry mobs with pitchforks and the occasional knight that wanted to kill Rayla and Zym and 'set the princes free'. But those never end with more than a few choice words, a lot of running and sometimes watching Rayla kick butt. A professional bounty hunter who claims to work for the King and who was sent to kill him and Ezran is new. Especially when he manages to capture one of the brothers and intends to use him to lure the other out.





	1. Attack

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea I had since the episode when Viren sends his children after the princes. This was originally gonna feature Soren and Claudia, but I have absolutely no grasp on their characters, so instead I went with a made-up antagonist. I think I might be able to post the next chapter by the end of the week, but I have tons of exams this and next week, so I might postpone it a little bit.  
> Warning: not in this chapter, but in the future, there will be descriptions of blood and some worse than canon-typical violence.

The attack comes out of nowhere, at least to Callum. Distantly, he thinks that maybe Bait has known, for he has been hiding in bushes ever since they stopped. They had decided to settle down for a while, since Ezran was complaining that he was tired and Azymondias expressed how hungry he was. Though at this point, that might as well be the general description for the baby dragon at any time. As they learned in the week since he hatched on the peak of the Cursed Caldera, baby dragons are downright insatiable. They have to stop at least twice a day to get the little guy food. And it’s not just any food either. Apparently, dragons are exclusively carnivorous, so that means they have to hunt for him.

He still remembers Rayla’s disgruntled face when he revealed that he and Ezran have absolutely no idea how to hunt.

They worked out a system by the second day. They eat in the morning and then stop sometime after sunhigh to feed Zym’s bottomless stomach. Right now, he and Ezran are looking through bushes, trying to find berries or fruit that they recognize and know isn’t poisonous (after Ezran nearly ate a nightshade berry, Callum has taken to checking everything twice) as the sun slowly starts to dip from its zenith. There were also some roots that have plenty of important nutrients, some that he read about in the castle library and some that Rayla pointed out to him.

Ezran has the dragon perched on his shoulders, constantly yapping and snapping at any passing insect. He knows Bait is around somewhere, but he has no idea where.

“Callum? Zym wants to know when Rayla will come back.” His younger brother informs him. Of course he does. That dragon’s thoughts seem to know only one direction at times.

“I don’t know, Ez.” He says for the fifth time. “She needs to actually find something.”

Ezran quiets down then. They are both more or less accustomed to seeing dead animals, either when hunters came to the castle or on the marketplace where there are whole racks of them on display. It took some time getting used to (for Ez especially, with his love for animals; when he first saw one in the kitchen, he had mude such a scene that he drew guards from half the castle). But knowing that someone is at that very moment trailing some animal, waiting to kill it so they could eat, is a little unsettling. The first time the elf came back with two turkeys hanging from her hand, feathers stained with blood, he almost screamed.

But it’s necessary for Zym, so they just roll with it.

“Tell him he’s going to have to wait,” he instructs his younger brother.

Just then, the brush ahead outside of the clearing they’re in rustles and Ezran perks up. Callum raises an eyebrow. _Now that’s timing,_ he thinks.  The undergrowth shakes some more, causing his growing smile to drop into a frown. Rayla sometime arrives with some sign that she is there, but never this much. Is she hurt?

T hen the bushes part violently, branches snapping off and leaves flying, and Callum instantly realizes that whatever it is, it’s not their friend. He’s just pulling Ezran behind him, telling him to hide Zym in his backpack, when a large mass  charges them.  They’re knocked away like children’s toys and Callum feels the cold unyielding metal of a shoulder  guard dig itself into his chest.  He hears Ezran shriek from somewhere close by.

W hen he jumps back to his feet, he sees that what bulldozed right over them  i s not a bear or another  animal, but actually a human;  a very very large man .  He’s covered shoulders to heels in gleaming steel and a giant furry cloak i s attached around his neck.  His face is pulled into an ugly sneer with a single thin but long scar running from his forehead over the bridge of his nose all the way down to his jaw.

H e surveys him and Ezran with the sort of apathetic critical look one would give a  weapon when deciding if it’s sharp enough. A broadsword is strapped to his hip, so long that the tip of the sheath brushes the ground.  Then his face breaks into what could possibly have been a smile, but it show s just a tad too many teeth.

“You the cowards who call themselves princes?” He snarls. “Kidnapped my ass. And by an elf! Tall tales to tell about someone who just ran away cause you were scared.”

H e advances on a shaking Ezren, who  has landed on the opposite side as Callum. “ If you run now, how do you expect to lead the kingdom? Huh? You just gonna give our land to the wastes of air on the border? ”  He spits on the ground as if to make his point.

“Well, not on my watch.” He flexes his fingers and strides purposefully toward the younger prince. _Not happening_ , Callum thinks as he rushes forward.

“Fulminis!” He cries over and over, finger writing uselessly in the air. Without the primal stone, it’s useless.

His brother is quickly backing away from the mountain of a man, his backpack with Zym inside clutched in Ezran’s lap and Bait nowhere to be seen. Callum drops his hand to his side and staggers forward, not quite sure what he can do, but knowing he has to do something. His chest hurts dully from the hit he received and his breathing is a little heavier, but that doesn’t stop him.

Ezran yelps suddenly when his hands grasp air behind him and he rolls backwards into a shallow ditch. Tumbling over his head, he stops splayed on his stomach, groaning, with the backpack a little ways from him, something inside squirming. Callum’s breath leaves him when their assailant drops down after his brother without hesitation and pauses to stare at the wiggling bag. Silently, he prays Zym to stop, to sense the danger and quiet down before the man decides to investigate.

Of course, Zym is a newborn and doesn’t quit, instead he yips angrily (anytime else, the sound would melt Callum’s heart; now he just feels icy fear crawl into his stomach) and doubles his efforts to get out. Jumping against the fabric, he rolls the entire bag over a few times, making the man jerk back, before the latch finally comes undone and he is freed.

Right at their assailant’s feet.

The man doesn’t hesitate, instantly reaching down and gripping the baby dragon with massive careless hands. One envelopes his entire chest and then some, pinning one wing to Zym’s side while the other grasps his head between two fingers, turning it this way and that as though the dragon was no more than a thing to be inspected and judged. Zym growls playfully and tries to nip him, too young to recognize the danger.

Callum whispers a quiet “no,” feeling as though his world was crashing down around him. Then he is moving, rushing forward, intent of doing _something._ Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Ezran doing the same, a shriek coming from his mouth. Callum releases his own battle cry as he reaches the edge of the dip in the ground and launches himself at the man’s back, intending to body-slam him away.

I t works about as well as he should have expected.

The older prince’s weight,  even combined with  a loaded backpack and a sketchbook (that thing  i s heavier than it look s ) barely  makes the adult stumble.  He wraps both arms and legs around his torso, flinging his body side-to-side in an attempt to get the man’s attention away from the defenseless creature.

It works, partially. He stops his inspection of Zym, but doesn’t let him go and instead twists around to grasp at Callum with one free hand.  The boy evades the first and the second gra b at his head, but then a meaty hand wraps around his skinny arm and he is effortlessly lifted from  the adult’s back.  Callum rages and kicks in the iron grip, but is powerless to stop being thrown away like a ragdoll. H e feels his skin get scraped and bruised from the slide along the forest floor.

T hen, out of nowhere, a much worse pain explodes in his left ankle and  a cry is torn from his throat as he looks up .  The man is standing above him with a disgusted expression as he raises a foot away from Callum’s legs, no doubt to swing at him with another kick  with– _is that_ _boot tipped with spikes?!_

Before he can, though, a small furious mass collides with his legs, kicking, punching and scratching at any exposed skin Ezran can find. He latches onto the raised foot and jerks back, away from his brother, putting all his effort into his small rescue; he even snaps his teeth at the man’s fingers when they glide by too close.

“Let him go!” The boy screeches and Callum isn’t sure if he’s talking about Zym or himself, but he scrambles to his feet anyway. Or, at least, he attempts to; a burning throbbing pain from his left leg makes him crumple back to the ground. Ezran beats at the leg he took hostage for moment longer before he is roughly shoved away.

While the young prince sits up and rubs his elbow with barely concealed tears in his eyes, the man lifts Zym high into the air, clutching him so tight that the tiny dragon lets out a cry of pain. A sickening grin overtakes his features with so much violent enjoyment and wild excitement that Callum thinks of a starving wolf that just came across an easy meal. His free hand reaches to his belt and retrieves a curved dagger, which he promptly levels at Zym’s chest.

Callum inhales sharply and Ezran cries “NO!” from his position. The man just smirks wider. “Another worthless stain wiped from our world.” The blade is already thrusting forward, heading straight for the dragon’s heart and Callum knows that even without a hurt ankle, he would be too slow. He sees the knife plunge itself into the infant’s scales before it happens, sees the light fade from his eyes and sees him go limp and watches as red liquid drips around the wound. He sees Rayla’s face when she comes back, the horror and shock and pure agony on her face. He sees the world burned down by war, all because they were careless. But in it all, he sees his little brother clutching a broken dragon to his chest and wailing in misery. Tears prick his eyes.

There’s a yowl from Zym, but it’s not a pain-filled dying sound. It sounds more excited and surprised. Callum watches in open-mouthed shock as Ezran charges forward and with a yell that seems to be almost a roar, leaps at the arm holding Zym, clinging on with strength and determination worthy of someone thrice his age. He digs dull nails into the exposed skin and lifts himself up to actually bite it, causing the man to let out a yell.

The dagger misses.

Callum feels like he can breathe again when he sees Zym struggling angrily against the hold, irritated but unharmed. Then his heart is in his throat again as the adult, obviously annoyed with the kid attacking his arm, instead points the sharpened blade at Ezran. The boy is too busy trying to free Zym to notice the danger as the hand winds back for a strike.

“EZRAN! Ez, let go!” Callum shouts, panicked, surging to his feet despite the hot white agony in his leg. He stumbles forward, riding the wave of adrenaline to push through the pain. His brother looks up at the shout. The dagger flashes forward. There’s a cry of pain.

The elder prince feels like his heart stops right then and there, but Ezran is crawling backward on the ground, the sleeve of a hand cut open; there’s no blood that Callum can see. He’s breathing heavily, clearly fight-or-flight instinct taking over as he stares at the man with wide eyes. The dragon struggles with renewed vigor, sensing his friend’s pain and fear. A white spark dances on his horns for a second.

_Lightning?_ Callum thinks distantly, before his mind clicks.  _Lightning! Storm dragon! Zym can generate lightning!_

“Zym! Shock him!” He cries out the order in desperation. “Use your lightning! Fulminis!” Fulminis is in draconic. Zym would understand that, right?

“He can’t, Callum! He doesn’t know how!” Ezran calls back, fear in his voice.

The man advances with the raised weapon. Zym roars a little roar in fury. Wind whistles quietly through the mountain peaks above them. Not even wind, more of a strong breeze.

_Strong breeze?_

Callum desperately raises his hand to draw the lightning rune again, no matter how useless, when he feels a faint power trickle through his veins. Gasping he switches the rune. One half circle, a second, a short line at the bottom to finish it. “Aspiro!” he calls out the release word, because they made fun of the wind spell, but storms knocked over trees and buildings with nothing more than wind and he might be able to unbalance a single person.

The rune glows and he takes the deepest breath he can, then blows it out as strong as he can. A strong wind whips from him, right into the assailant and it’s unexpected enough that he grunts and shifts sideways, His hand opens as he tries to steady himself and Zym flees immediately. He crouches into Ezran’s lap, nuzzling him before turning and hissing at their attacker.

Said attacker had clearly had enough. With fury on his face he straightens to tower over Ezran, blade still in hand and already positioned to strike. Callum knows they’re out of time. So far they managed to avoid dying through sheer luck and switching the man’s attention from one to the other, but the wind-breath spell was the last ace up Callum’s sleeve.

The next one to distract him would not make it out alive. This thought is only supported by the second dagger that has appeared in the man’s hand. They couldn’t outrun him, either; he’s clearly well-built and in top shape. Their only chance would be if Rayla managed to find them in the next minute. He wonders why she didn’t come yet. She said she was only going to look around and their fight had not been quiet. Could their assailant have already found her? Or did he have friends that distracted her? He finds it hard to believe that they might have killed her.

Whatever happened, she is not here and he needs to make a decision _now_. As he looks between his brother, the dragon that is the only hope of keeping war at bay and the silent human that wants to kill them, his mind is made up. He feels the same cold, determined, resigned feeling he felt when an elf in the castle pointed swords at his neck and told him she was there to kill his younger brother.

Ignoring his throbbing ankle, powered forward by his brother’s whimpers, he springs forward and latches himself onto the man’s arm, kicks at his knees and tries to elbow him between armor plates.

“Go!” He shouts to Ezran between grunts of effort and pain. “Get Zym out of here!” Because Zym is what really matters, he is the reason they are on this journey and he can be the savior the world is waiting for. Ezran hesitates.

“Just go!” Callum barely gets the word out before he feels a strong blow to the side of his head and his world spins as he is thrown off. White spots dance in his vision as he bounces back to his feet and throws himself at the man again. He is too dizzy to aim for anything really, swinging from side to side like he’s drunk, so all he ends up doing is crashing into the man’s armor before sliding down.

“I’ll–I’ll get Rayla.” He thinks he can see his brother back away and turn to run.

But then he feels the boot next to his head move to follow and thinks through the haze, _oh hell no_ , and with all his remaining strength wraps both hands around it and pulls. The assailant, weighted down by all his armor, goes down with a resounding thud.

And that’s about all Callum remembers. He thinks that the man must have gotten up quickly, but he doesn’t follow the fleeing child. _That’s all that matters._ Callum isn’t important to the future, no matter how much he wants to see it. Ezran and Zym can change the world. And Rayla will protect them. Callum has done his job as a big brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope no one turned away when I nearly killed Zym. I would never do that to the little fuzzball.  
> Please let me know what you think in the comments! What do you think will happen to Callum?


	2. Rayla

Rayla pauses in a hunter’s crouch. Some distance ahead of her, a plump pheasant pecks at the roots of an ancient tree. It must have wandered into the shaded woods in a foolish quest for food. Not unlike her.

A breeze rustles the foliage and the elf stills, trying to shrink into the bushes. The bird’s head pops up and it surveys its surroundings with wide beady eyes, passing right over her hiding place. She nearly sighs in relief when it goes back to assaulting the ground. It was a long time since she had to hunt this often, without space or time for failure.

They left the Cursed Caldera behind and along with it, their temporary allies, despite Ezran’s best attempts to recruit them for their quest. Internally, Rayla is glad. She holds no animosity for any of them; Elis was a sweetheart and having a wolf along would have more pros than cons, certainly, but Elis is so young, maybe even younger than Ezran and somehow even more naive. Rayla wouldn’t have felt right taking such from her home and into the dangers of the world. She still feels her heart clench whenever she’s reminded just how young Ezran is.

But leaving Ezran in the castle would have been foolish and she doubts he would have stayed at the Lodge with his Aunt if they asked him to. And there is something about Ezran that makes him seem older, some subconscious understanding of the dangers of the world, perhaps originating from his close connection to nature, which never spares anyone.

Then there is Lujanne.

The elder elf has a kind and caring soul, no doubt about that, and she has the aura of an old wise being, but she is too adverse to conflict. She fled from Xadia and onto the second tallest mountain in the human kingdoms to avoid the war. She wishes for peace, but flees instead of trying to achieve it. Rayla doesn’t know how to feel about that. Or the fact that Lujanne feels safer away from her ancestral land. Rayla always was a person of action and dedication to her cause, she can’t sit idly by while others take up arms and give their lives to protect their home. She never hides and waits for the universe to right itself; because that would never happen.

But despite that, the aged Moon Mage means well and would probably be exactly the sort of common sense and adult supervision that their reckless ragtag group needs. Rayla smirks to herself, _good thing she stayed home_.

Dry earth thumps with footsteps.

The pheasant straightens and stills, eyes wide, before spreading its wings and throwing itself into flight. It clears the nearby treeline in a heartbeat and soars up out of reach. But Rayla is far from concerned with the bird. She flattens herself into the undergrowth, taking soft breaths, as the carelessly loud footsteps grow closer. She can make out faint conversation and the muted sound of boots, along with the sharper thuds of a set of hooves.

Multiple humans. One horse.

The elf’s eyes narrow and she raises herself just barely, ears pricked for the telltale sound of squeaking wheels and creaking wood. Her mouth pulls into a frown when she can’t detect it.

No wagon or carriage.

In her mind, she runs over everything she knows about humans from her training. Prejudiced impressions aside, assassins have been trained to be on alert for horses. Aristocrats and traders supposedly only have horses to pull their wagons full of merchandise or overly fancy, expensive carriages. The upper class might have their personal guards, but they will not leave their masters and traders were survivors but did not go looking for trouble.

She should be safe, for now.

If they do spot her though, they will surely report it to the nearest town and her trio will have bounty hunters and knights on their heels within days.

Or they can be knights already looking for them. Runaan has warmed her multiple times that human warriors ride horses for longer journeys and that horses can mean a whole group of them. But Rayla has witnessed knights on horses when they nearly found their camp due to her blunder and they had been focused and hurried, not wandering around at a leisurely pace and making pleasant conversation. Plus, all of them have had horses back then.

They come close enough for Rayla to make out their words and pick out individual accented laughter. A partially hidden path lies not far ahead of her, which she’s deduced the humans are using. It’s too close. Even though her armor is dyed the perfect color to blend into shadows in greenery, she’s near enough to the path that they’ll notice her from above.

Worry runs like lightning down her spine, but she’s already springing to her feet, her mind working double time to find a suitable tree. An oak with a wide trunk and thick foliage stands across the path, its sagging branches sturdy enough to walk comfortably on. Rayla takes a quick look down both sides of the path to confirm that the group she hears is still behind a bend and then sprints across the few meters of vulnerable flat ground and into the underbrush on the other side.

Thorns catch on exposed skin on her arms, but her armor slides by them smoothly and soon she’s under the old tree. Her chosen branch is twice as high as she is tall, but with a powerful leap the elf clears most of the distance and digs one of her hooked blades into its bark. She swings her body once, twice, then latches one leg on the wood and heaves herself up. She sheaths her weapon and climbs higher with grace that a cat would be jealous of.

Only once she’s a good ten meters up does she slow down and look for a suitable perch. The leafy canopy are too thick close to the trunk so she moves away. The branches thin out and start to resemble sticks too weak to sit on, but Rayla knows how to distribute her weight. Soon, she has found a good enough spot from which she could see the path, yet should remain hidden. She reaches up and pulls up her hood as a precaution.

Not a moment later, humans come into view, at least five of them of various ages and genders, all laughing merrily. They have no armor or visible weapons and seem to be completely ignorant of their surroundings. Their clothes seem finer than average, but more threadbare than Callum and Ezran’s, colored with browns, reds, greens and blues. Large backpacks packed to bursting hang on their shoulders and a single horse in the middle has heavy saddlebags on its back.

Just as they come under where Rayla is hiding, on of them holds up her hand and stops. She looks around with narrowed eyes and the elf instinctively crouches back. “How ‘bout we take a lil’ break, eh?”

All the others agree gratefully and set down their heavy loads, one of them tying the horse to Rayla’s tree and taking off its cargo. All as one they gather in a circle in the middle of the path and start emptying their bags. Instead of tools or weapons or even a change of clothes, every single handful they take out is some piece of food.

The hidden elf is nearly salivating at the sight. Having to hunt twice a day, not to mention being on high alert day and night for days is really taking a toll on her. It’s a jarring difference to being surrounded by a team of skilled and experienced survivors and elven assassins who would watch her back in this foreign land. But now she’s the best trained in their group and it’s more or less her job to keep the rest of them alive and safe.

So when the humans below her unpack enough food to feed a village so carelessly, her mind begins running through possibilities. It would only work once, that is for sure and it would be beyond risky. But if she can get her hands on some of it, probably not enough for the humans to even feel the loss, it would be a great boost for a day for her and the princes. Not to mention she can see a good variety of food, something that they have been sorely lacking, especially in the vegetables department. Elves are predominantly carnivorous and whatever else she needs she can supplement with a few berries or roots that are very common. Ezran and Callum, as she has learned, need much more plant matter in their diet to stay healthy.

She hates having to sink so low, but she’s aware of the facts; she’s too worn out being paranoid, sleeping as lightly as she can, hunting for Zym and still being ready to run or defend. As much as she stands behind the motto Runaan taught her that ‘the mission and honor come before her survival’, right now the mission _is_ their survival.

On silent feet, Rayla slips closer to the trunk to hide her movements and slowly makes her way down, one tiny motion at a time to avoid making noise. She’s not sure what she’ll do. She doesn’t want to get into a fight, not only because she’s tired and outnumbered, but because she knows that unless she kills all of them they will bolt into the nearest human settlement and send a mob to hunt her down. She can knock all of them unconscious to buy herself time to escape and cover her tracks, but that’ll still reveal which way they took Zym.

She crouches on one of the lower branches, carefully hiding her body behind a young sprout of leaves. Closer now, she can count seven humans and though unarmed, they are clearly well trained and able; survivors. If they see her, blood will be spilled and someone will get hurt. But it’s still the best option she has; she’s certain that they already scared away any possible prey.

Rayla forces herself face the facts, she was trained for this, for fighting and hurting, protecting through pain and violence. She picks out one who she deems the strongest among them, unsurprisingly their leader. The woman reminds Rayla of the human general that nearly put an arrow through her rib cage, solidly built and gaze hardened behind her joyous laughter. She is the biggest threat; all her followers are too laid-back and unaware of any potential dangers. They might be strong but the elf has the element of surprise. She just needs to use it wisely.

Her opportunity comes sooner than she expects. The leader suddenly stands up and beckons to most of her followers. Four of the group get up and leave, their voices loud enough that Rayla can gather they are looking for a source of water. That’s good, perfect even, because as far as she has seen the nearest river is more than an hour’s journey away. That leaves three members guarding the food and from what Rayla can see, they’re the least battle-ready and wholly distracted.

The elf scans them and quickly picks her target. The man seems young, though humans age different to elves so she might not be guessing it right, and though he’s all muscle, he is clearly inexperienced. The male sitting right next to him and leaning against him is leaner, muscles small but strong. The third is an older woman sitting across the food from them and despite the appearance of a friendly mother, she has a vicious scar circling her upper arm multiple times; a memento from a battle long past.

The elf draws her sword but keeps its blade sheathed and drops down without warning. The man below her doesn’t even have time to recognize her weight on his back before she knocks him out with a hit to the base of his head. The man leaning on him shouts out in surprise, but she’s on him in less than a second and he joins his friend on the ground just as quickly. She stands and finds the woman has pulled out a dagger and is advancing on her with measured steps. Rayla lets her get just within striking distance and the moment her arms shoots out to cut her, the elf ducks. She knocks the hand away, aims a powerful punch into her side and the woman staggers back, dagger falling. Then, forgoing her training altogether, Rayla uses her sheathed sword to deliver a hit into her lower jaw, sending her down instantly.

Not even breathing heavily, the elf turns to the food, looking for some sack or piece of cloth she could use to carry it. She finds a relatively big animal skin pouch and quickly snatches it up. She turns her attention on the food and pauses, considering. She should only take enough food to feed them now and in the evening; they can’t have it weighting them down. She grabs two fish, figuring it wouldn’t hurt for her to have some variety as well (unsurprisingly, her fishing is downright horrible) and after some thought adds a third and what looks like a skinned rabbit leg, just to be sure Zym would have enough.

Then she pauses again as she considers all the vegetables, mushrooms and fruits. She hesitantly grabs what looks like small moonberries, even though the smell is wrong. She supposes nothing should be poisonous since the humans were planning on eating it. When she can’t compare anything else confidently enough, she gives up on caution and just stuffs the pouch full of random plants. She’s just deciding on a hard striped green fruit (at least she thinks it is? It smells sweet) as big as her head when she hears quiet voices in the distance. Panicking, she hastily shoves it among the other foods she’s taking and fumbles with the string to tie it off.

“–coming back?”

“He’s been gone for a while. Think he’s doing something stupid?”

“What he’s doin’ is bette’ than all the knights in the king’s castle.”

“So you know what he’s up to now?”

“Nah.”

“Really? Thought he’d tell his sister.”

But her hand is still hurting a little and it takes four tries for her to get the knot right and by that time the returning humans have noticed the lack of noise from their comrades. They burst onto the path just as Rayla straightens and she’s endlessly grateful for her hood hiding her horns and markings. Still, human or elf, the leader doesn’t look happy with the situation judging by the scowl on her face and changes at Rayla without hesitation.

The elven girl just barely dodges to the side when a whip comes into the leader’s hands from out of nowhere. The first strike soars over her head as she crouches down, but then has to spring up to avoid a low attack on her knees. Rayla doesn’t wait to see where the third one will aim, she takes off running as soon as her toes touch the ground. She can hear heavy footsteps behind her, multiple sets, and angry shouts from the pursuing humans.

_T_ _hey t_ _hink they can catch up_ , she smirks to herself, because thieving has felt wrong but outrunning trained knights and warriors and disappearing from enemies is her specialty. Her eyes scan the forest and she takes off in the most overgrown direction she can see. Weaving between shrubs and brambles is much easier for her than them and their voices rise in fury. Daring a look back Rayla sees them fighting a thorny bush some ways back.

Seeing her chance, she dodges around thick trees and finally finds a suitable one. She nimbly ducks behind it and once out of their sight, scales the rough trunk and darts into the branches. Unopposed by undergrowth, her speed improves greatly and the shouts of humans fade behind her.

But they don’t disappear.

She frowns, slowing down, ears pricking. She can definitely hear someone, but it’s not the enraged bellowing that she left behind. It’s much higher and full of panic, downright shrill with it. Her ears pin back when it reaches an especially painful level, but before she can try to bolt from it she realizes she knows the voice.

“RAYLA!”

It’s unmistakably Ezran, though she has never heard him that scared. Pinpointing the direction he’s in is easy and a few leaps take her right above him. He seems unharmed, only a few red scratches from thorns marring his arms and legs, wrestling with a bramble caught on his shirt. He’s clutching Zym in a death grip despite the dragon’s protests and tears can’t seem to stop flowing down his cheeks. Callum is nowhere to be seen.

The elf stiffens and quickly scans their surroundings. But she can’t find any threats, so what could have freaked the young prince so much he’d separate from his brother?

Figuring they were safe for the moment, she makes her way down the tree, dropping down the last couple meters. She lands silently just on the edge of Ezran’s periphery vision (some habits are hard to break) and cringes when he startles, badly. He tries to spin around, getting more tangled in the bush and squeezing Zym as a sob makes its way out his throat. Wide terror-stricken eyes look at her and Rayla nearly hits herself when she realizes she still has her hood up.

“Woah, Ezran, it’s just me.” With slow non-threatening movements she reaches up to pull it down, plastering on as soft a smile as she can. When he sees her face his hesitance seems to dissolve and he bolts forward, ignoring his shirt ripping from the bush and dropping Zym to the ground. He all but launches himself onto the elf, sobbing openly as he wraps his small arms around her midsection, burying his face in her armor. “What happened?”

He tries to speak, but all he manages are broken words she can’t understand. Rayla is stunned for a moment, unsure what to do, but then she slowly lowers herself to her knees and gingerly puts her arms around Ezran’s small frame, waiting out the barrage of tears. Eventually, he cries himself out, body sagging into her embrace as he continues sniffling and hiccuping pitifully. The elf tentatively pries him away from her, moving her hands from his hair to his shoulders and looking into his eyes.

“What happened?” She asks, hoping that he’ll be able to answer this time. Somehow more tears gather at the corners of his eyes, but he holds them back. Rayla’s heart breaks as she’s reminded just how _young_ Ezran is. But young or not, she needs to know. “Ezran, what happened? And where’s Callum?”

Clearly the wrong thing to ask.

Ezran waves his hands frantically, speaking so fast his words lose meaning. Realizing this, he takes a deep breath and steels himself, then talks again, still fast, but understandable. “Someone came – he was huge and had this giant sword – and-and he attacked – Zym, and-and Callum, Callum’s hurt! And I can’t find Bait and I think he might have him but I can’t go back! You have to save him!”

Rayla’s heart feels like it’s full of lead, because of course the one time she got into a situation and couldn’t hear if her companions were in trouble was when trouble would strike. Now someone has Callum and Ezran isn’t making them seem like they are looking to ‘save the princes from the bloodthirsty elf’. Why would anyone be hunting the princes though? Are they from Xadia? Someone sent in after they found out she and her team failed?

She shakes herself to get back on track. Callum is in trouble. Is probably in a dangerous situation. She needs to see it to really determine it though. She looks intently at Ezran, filing her emotions away to process at a later time. Right now, she needs to be practical and focused.

“Where is he?” She asks, though her voice is a little too cold, judging by the look Ezran sends her.

He looks at her and shakes his head without answering, pupils going wide. “N-no! You’ll get hurt if you go!”

“Are you saying I can’t take one little grunt?” She feigns indignation and Ezran’s lips twitch up ever so slightly.

“He’s not little.” He mumbles, worry still clear in his gaze.

“That just means he’ll be an easier target.” She declares and Ezran looks up with something akin to hope in his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of a filler chapter than any real plot, but I really wanted to write Rayla and this came to life.


	3. Captivity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callum wakes up to find himself all alone with a dangerous enemy and no way to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, nothing like a new season coming out to give me a harsh deadline. Honestly, while I like it, this might be really rushed so might not be the same quality as the other chapters. I still have to do some proof-reading. Hope you enjoy it anyway!
> 
> EDIT 6/2/2019: Sorry, no chapter, just fixing some spelling.

When Callum regains consciousness again, it’s slow and painful. His eyes lazily open a sliver and he blinks uncomprehendingly, sleep clouding his head and sight. Sounds seem far away and muffled and his nose is stuffed, forcing him to breath through his mouth. His tongue and throat are dry and feel as scratchy as sandpaper.

And his whole body is _aching_.

The world is far away, only the pain clear. His skin flares with the dull soreness of bruises crisscrossed by a myriad of scratches. His ankle is throbbing ceaselessly, so painful he can’t really feel it anymore. A hammer seems to have taken permanent residence in his head and is mercilessly pounding away at his skull.

He shifts slightly, hazily wondering what he fell asleep on. It isn’t uncommon for the traveling trio to just drop where they stand after a long day, no matter how uncomfortable the ground is; beds are a luxury now instead of a given; they are hiding from the law, they can’t afford to be seen. Grass scratches his skin, coarse enough to make him think of needles and jagged stones poke into his back and his arms under him. His wrists are especially sore and every movement makes them rub against something rough and unyielding.

As his mind begins to sharpen and access his surroundings, confusion clouds his thoughts, a memory on the edge of his conscious thinking that he can’t quite recall. A plate of metal, a flash of blinding panic and fear, faint magic coursing through his veins. The pounding in his head sounds like thunder now and Callum groans, silently begging for the relief of unconsciousness. He tugs an arm from under his body to massage his temples.

At least, he tries to.

Leaf-green eyes snap open despite the brightness of the sun high above when his hand stays firmly stuck in place. Callum tries to bolt upright but his arms are unresponsive and partially numb and he’s sent crashing on his back. There’s uncomfortable fabric circling his wrists and with his mind no longer muddled by sleep, he quickly realizes they’re bound together by rope.

 _Not good_ , he thinks blearily as his heartbeat speeds up. Why is he tied up? Who could have even have done that? He’s in the middle of the woods, at least he was as far as he can remember. Could Rayla have turned on them? He doesn’t want to believe it. But who else could have found them?

_Them._

“Shit – Ezran?” he calls out from his position on the ground. Is his brother alright? He has to be. But there’s no response.

“Okay, okay.” Callum takes a deep breath; in, hold, out slowly. No response can mean that Ezran isn’t captured. The elder prince forces down panic. He needs to think clearly; _access your situation._

His hands are immobile but he seems to be free beyond that. He’s still in the forest; he can see trees, hear birdsong and there’s not sign of any human activity. His wrists are raw from chafing against his shackles, his head is throbbing all around and his ankle is especially painful, but those seem to be the worst of his injuries. To add to his discomfort his skin is covered in bruises and scratches.

Like he was dragged around the forest floor.

Callum frowns, trying to remember exactly what happened. His mind is fuzzy, but he can remember a large figure attacking him and Ezran relentlessly. Some hunter, he thinks. He found Zym, tried to kill him. But he somehow got away – the memory starts to fade around that, blurry and unorganized, just a chaotic recollection of thoughts and feelings in between panic. He knows Ezran got away, or at least should have been able to.

He also remembers that he should not have woken up again. Didn’t the hunter say he was going to kill both of them? What can he gain from keeping Callum alive? Not that the elder prince is complaining. Does the hunter intend to sell him as a slave? Does he want Callum awake and aware when he finishes the deed? Callum shivers at the possibilities that spring up from his present predicament.

If he can get up he won’t have to find out.

It takes effort and some tricky maneuvering to roll himself onto his stomach and then up into a kneeling position. Spitting out the mouthful of dirt he got for his troubles, Callum takes in the clearing he finds himself in. It is as nondescript as can be; ringed by thick trees with full leafy crowns, a small hole in the canopy admits in sunlight onto a patch of deep green grass. The prince isn’t sure if it’s the same place as where he was captured.

The only notable portion is a small heap of human leather accessories. A belt full of different knives and daggers and a heavy fur cloak deem them as Callum’s captor’s. Said captor is nowhere in sight, something that the prince considers a small mercy. If he can get to those, he might be able to cut the restraints and get free before the man comes back with whatever sinister plan he had for him.

Hope igniting like a forest fire in his heart, the prince surges to his feet, intent on not wasting any more time, but he’s promptly brought back down by blinding agony from his foot. Falling back on his behind, he spends a minute just breathing, in, out, in, out, fighting back the urge to vomit. Once he is certain he won’t lose what little food he has in his stomach, he looks down at his leg. It’s not hard to see why he isn’t able to walk on it. The pant leg is ripped through about halfway between his knee and heel and everything around and below it is colored dark red with blood.

A new wave of dizziness and nausea flows over him at the sight and the wound floods with fresh agony as though to prove its existence. Callum can’t be sure how far into his skin it goes, but when he tries to remember the spiked boot that caused it, he becomes aware that it has to be too deep for him to run on it. Or even walk.

He stretches his legs out and looks up at the little patch of blue sky he can see through the leafy cover. This isn’t good. If he can’t run, he can’t get away from the hunter, even if Ez and Rayla come to rescue him. He’ll be a dead weight.

A metallic clank catches his attention. It comes from the forest out of his sight and is closely followed by more, forming a crude rhythm. _Footsteps_. Callum panics and scoots backward as the person comes in his direction. They’re close enough that the prince can catch flashes of gleaming armor in between the undergrowth.

His heart rate picks up with adrenaline, but he can’t run and can’t fight, so he takes the next best option. Wincing in pain, he carefully lies back down on his back, arranging his legs in what he hopes are natural positions and closes his eyes. His face is too tense with anxiety to relax so he turns his head away from the approaching person.

With eyes screwed shut, the sounds of parting bushes and heavy footsteps seem amplified tenfold. A branch snaps like thunder and the footsteps become crystal clear as they finally enter the clearing. Callum tries not to shiver with foreboding when all goes silent. The air becomes unbearably thick with anticipation.

A low throaty chuckle reverberates from the direction of the person as they start moving again, metal plates clinking.

“Kid, a rabbit in the wolf’s den is less tense than you. You wouldn’t fool anyone.” They rasp with mild amusement and Callum can instantly match the voice to his earlier attacker. He still doesn’t dare move, clinging to some dying hope that he will be ignored.

The man huffs out a breath. “Get up, you look like an idiot. Or stay put. Either way I don’t care.”

Muscles taut like a drawn bowstring, the prince cautiously peeks his eyes open and slowly turns his head to face his captor. The man doesn’t bother to acknowledge him as he sits down heavily on a rock jutting from the ground. He has his broadsword in one hand and a whetstone in the other and his gaze is firmly caught by the gleaming blade. Without having to fight for his life (for the moment) Callum can really look at him.

Aside from his massive size and the scar crossing his face, he seems like an average man from the Crown Guard. His face isn’t familiar, but Callum still wonders if he served the king at some point. Brown hair cut short and shaggy and a full beard adorn his head and he is clad in silver armor that looks like it had been expensive at some point, but is too dented and well-worn now. Without the cloak, he seems leaner; someone who can use brute strength but is used to not relying on it.

The hunter drags the stone across his blade unexpectedly and Callum scrambles to cover his ears from the piercing shriek it emits. The sound only highlights the constant throbbing in his head. The man continues to sharpen the sword with no regard to the ear-tearing sound, until it drags a whimper from Callum when his skull feels like it’s splitting apart.

The man stills, gaze cutting into the prince. His brow is furrowed and mouth pulled into an expression of disgust. After years of having people look down on him because he couldn’t do something or deal with loss as well as was expected, it’s a natural reaction to try and hide his pain. It’s relatively easy to wipe the grimace off of his face and let his eyes fall to the ground, head hanging slightly.

He hears a scoff and when he looks up, the man is giving him an unimpressed once-over. “The king had to have been inane to think you were suited for the royal family.” It’s a barely audible mumble, but Callum hears it.

He pulls his shoulders closer to himself in shame, because he wants to be able to deny, to argue, but it’s repeating so many of his own insecurities back at him that he chokes on his words. He isn’t the first to say it, but it still hurts as much as the first time.

“Is the king desperate, taking in someone like that?”

“That’s the prince? He looks like an errand boy.”

“Let’s pray that the king has a son of his own.”

“He’s no leader; he can’t fight, can’t think logically. He will lead us to destruction.”

The man’s eyes sharpen into a glare and he sets his sword and sharpening stone down. He stands up and marches to Callum, making the boy scramble back. He stops right above him, looking down on him like he’s no more than an inconvenience, something he can’t wait to be rid off. The prince hunches his shoulders to appear smaller, fear clouding his mind.

“You may have lived a pretty life, sheltered from the world, but now it’s time to wake up.” He snarls. “Your kingdom is in the middle of a war and it needs a strong capable king who will crush Xadia without hesitation. Not a lowly peasant who accidentally wandered into the wrong family. You are just a _step-prince_. No royalty.”

The man gives him a harsh kick in the ribs and physical pain joins the emotional agony. Callum stays silent, heart beating wildly in his chest. Luckily, the man seems to have changed boots so the kick doesn’t open a new would in his side. Words race around his head like a runaway boulder, slurs and insults that have been directed at him over the years. And he can do nothing but lie there and endure.

Suddenly a heavy object lands centimeters from his head, followed by angry footsteps. A few seconds pass before the prince can discern that it’s his sketchbook lying in the dirt. It’s open somewhere in the middle and when Callum pushes himself onto his elbow to see, all breath leaves him. The page it’s open on is filled with pale half-finished sketches, just quick lines in a general shape with few details; it’s a good practice for when wants to zone out.

But that’s not what makes his heart stop.

The paper is covered in sketches of Rayla practicing her sword-fighting. He has been absolutely entranced by the smooth agile movements and fast strikes. It is different from the strength based fighting style that Soren utilized and Callum couldn’t help trying to capture it in charcoal. Fitted into the margins are more random objects, anything that managed to catch his eye: Rayla’s sword, Zym’s grinning face, Bait’s many expressions.

Callum’s vision is suddenly full of an enraged, reddening face. The man’s lips are pulled into an ugly sneer as he talks. “This is exactly what makes you worthless! This is a creature that needs to be dealt with, exterminated so it won’t poison our land! Not something to draw as if it were more than a _beast!_ ”

Panting with fury, the man doesn’t give Callum a chance to respond before he’s stomping off again, picking up his sword and angrily stabbing at a tree. Wood and bark splinters under the force, but the blade only gets halfway through before stopping and getting stuck. Grunting and grumbling under his breath, he grabs the hilt to pull it free, creating a shower of splinters. Heedless of the sharp edges he runs a hand over the flat metal, brushing away any left over wood.

He turns to Callum after he shoves it back into the sheath. He seems calmer as he talks with startling apathy, like a judge uncaring of the ultimatum he’s passing onto the prince. “Won’t be problem any longer. Once the kid comes running back for you, you’ll both be out of my hair.”

Blood freezes in his veins as the words echo in his ears. This hunter isn’t just after one of them, he wants both of the princes. Callum is no more than bait, he will be the cause of Ezran’s death, indirectly. He gave himself up to save him but it will all be for naught. But what can he do now? How is he supposed to escape with an injured foot? How can he just do nothing as his brother walks into this trap? He can’t just do _nothing_.

But the man’s not finished. Mouth pulling into a cruel grin, he sounds uncomfortably smug as he talks. “You don’t even know? You fled before you even knew what happened? The poor poor _step_ -prince, all alone and placing faith in the same _monsters_ who killed his father. The king is _dead_ , boy.”

Tears cloud Callum’s vision and sorrow squeezes his heart, his whole body curling into a fetal position. He doesn’t want to believe it, wants desperately for it to be false, but he knows, has known for a while, that it is the truth. There were too many little hints, details that paint a picture he never wants to see. The king, his father in all but blood, dead, killed by elves who his traveling companion would consider friends.

It hurts, it hurts so so much.

“Dead ya hear? Killed by that elf. But then again, he wasn’t your _real_ father, so you don’t really care, do you?”

He knows that what the hunter wants, to see him in pain, to see him suffer, but he can’t quite hold back the sobs that choke his throat. He doesn’t give any sort of response, only gasping sniffles. The man takes this as an opportunity to continue, driving the point home.

“I’m Lord Viren’s personal tracker and hunter. It’s time for a new line to ascend to the thone and lead us to victory. And while you live, Viren can’t be crowned.” He declared. “These drawings are a disgrace to the king’s memory.”

Silence descends on the duo as Callum grieves and the hunter watches him with dark satisfaction. The prince wants to scream, to hit something, someone, anything to make the pain go away. But it doesn’t, it stays and it hurts more. For the first time in his life, Callum truly wants to hurt someone, wants to grab a sword and attack one of his companions. For a moment, he well and truly hates Rayla.

But then the moment passes and the hate is washed away by familiar words that he himself said to Rayla before, when the roles were reversed. _You do this and someone will get revenge on you. It won’t end._ Violence only breeds more violence. He can grieve, he can cry his heart out, but he won’t hurt someone else, especially not his friend. He has to find it in him to forgive her.

But for what, in reality? For wanting to protect her home? For getting dragged into a war while knowing only one side of the story? She offered to go back and try to save his father. She turned on her team to keep them safe. She is probably the reason they survived this long.

Callum chokes back more tears, wiping his face on his shoulder as much as he can. He will process everything he just learned later. Right now, he needs to do something. Anything to keep this man from his brother.

He can’t run and he can’t fight.

But he _can_ talk.

But what is that worth against a sword? He can’t reason with someone who’s not listening. He can’t change what will happen. He will have to trust that Bait and Rayla will keep Ezran safe and continue their quest even without him. _Stay strong, Ez._ _You’re stronger than the world._

All he can do is say his piece. Push against his fear and make a stand, make his point. He can win even if he dies. He won’t die afraid, he refuses to, he’ll die knowing he’s defending his family. That counts as a victory for him.

Getting into a sitting position is hard with his hands tied and by the time he manages, tears are dried on his face and dirt covers half of his body. He must be a sorry sight, but for once, he feels no uncertainty at that. Something is building in his chest, waiting to break free.

“You can’t stop a war with violence.” He breathes, voice quiet and raspy. Callum clears his throat and tries again. “What will you achieve by killing me? Viren won’t end this war, he’ll drag it out.”

Lord Viren always seemed to be pushing the king into the bloodiest decisions, the ones that would yield the most dead, willing to sacrifice anyone for what he wants. Callum never saw it before but looking at the past with fresh eyes uncovers new truths. Now the princes have clearly been added onto Viren’s list of obstacles.

“If you follow Viren you _want_ this war to be bloody. A-and you won’t win it. No one can win war. Xadia and the Pentarchy will destroy each other if we keep pushing the conflict.” Voice growing stronger, confidence solidifying. “Elves and dragons are not our enemies. They shouldn’t be. There are those who want the war to continue and those who want to stop it. There are good and bad elves, and clearly bad and good humans.”

Callum gives the hunter his best judging look, trying to convey which one he thinks he’s looking at. His words still feel lacking, they’re not exactly what he wanted to say. Viren’s hunter watches him with a stormy expression.

“I know the king is dead. But so is Thunder. I didn’t want it this way, but it’s done and we have to let go. I have to accept that and when Ezran or I take the throne, we won’t let fear and hatred rule us. No matter someone’s mistakes, they should have the chance to make up for them.”

Breathing getting harder, Callum desperately searches for the words he wants to say. The pressure building in his chest bursts out with confidence and total conviction.

“And don’t think for a moment I’m going to let you so much as touch Ezran. He is the rightful heir to the throne and he is Katolis’s royalty. I might not have been born a prince, but I am your prince as well. Ezran is ten times better suited to rule than Viren or whoever they try to set on the throne. King Harrow, your king, has believed so.” _And he believed in me._

Steel coats his words with power he didn’t know he possessed.

“I am your prince and I order you to _kneel_.”

Callum is panting by the end of his rant and he feels both elevated and terrified at what he said. The hunter looks nowhere near dropping onto his knees, his expression both taken aback and red with fury. His broadsword clinks as it exists its sheath and the iron in Callum’s heart melts away, leaving him fully aware of what is going to happen next.

He tries to shuffle away, but it’s useless, he knows. The man advances on him without hesitation, weapon rising high above his head. The prince wants to screw his eyes shut and will away this waking nightmare, but some courage from his speech lingers still and it keeps him staring the end down.

Then the bushes next to him rustle and something brightly colored moves in them. Yellow and blue peaks out between the leaves and Callum feels lighter than air with hope. Giving a low whistle – Ezran has trained the glowtoad to respond to specific rhythms – he scoots back as quickly as he can.

Bait rumbles as he starts to make his way to Callum, waddling calmly as if he hasn’t yet noticed the danger. The sword starts falling before he can get close enough, but the prince is expecting that. Rolling to the side, he rolls onto his knees just as the deadly blade slices into the ground, tearing up dirt and grass. The hunter is lifting it again when Callum strikes out with his uninjured leg and catches Bait with his foot and shoves him close to the man’s feet.

The animal grunts in protest, turning a deep angry red, before noticing the unfamiliar human too close and lighting up with an explosion of light. Hands waving in alarm, he stumbles back, shouting angrily. Callum takes the precious few seconds he bought and waddles on his knees in the direction of the nearest tree; he can see a hole in between its roots where he might be safe for a little while.

Suddenly, there’s a crash from behind him and he chances a look back to see a dark green and white figure push off of the hunter’s back. A familiar elf lands between the threat and Callum and the boy thinks he might pass out from relief right on the spot.

Rayla points both of her blades at the unknown human and snaps with her usual sass.

“Didn’t you hear? Your prince told you to kneel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have only two more chapters, let's see if I can make them happen in a week and a half.


	4. Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What should be a routine fight takes a turn for the worse when the hunter gets the jump on Rayla.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter into two parts because it's just so darn long. The second half is on its way.

Rayla leaves Ezran where she found him, telling him to hide himself and Zym in the undergrowth to avoid being being caught by any humans who might have followed her. It isn’t the most ideal solution, especially with only a flimsy hiding space, but she needs to move fast and it’s still better than dragging the young princes into the middle of a fight.

Now that she’s staring down the wrong side of a really massive broadsword, she can easily say it was the right call. The human wielding is as giant as his weapon, at least two heads taller than her, wide at the shoulders and clad in bright silver armor. A strange dark purple gem is inset into the metal in the middle of his chest. The sword seems to be the only weapon he has on him, though she doubts he would ever really need another one.

He has recovered from her attack quickly, too quickly for her to push her advantage any more. She widens her stance in anticipation, judging his posture and stalling for time while Callum shuffles away from the confrontation.

The hunter runs out of patience first and swings his sword at her head. Her own blades flash up to meet it and the force of the collision digs her heels into the dirt. Like most human warriors, he prioritizes strength over speed and his attack is painful to even block. She’s going to have to be quicker.

He leers down at her, his rank breath washing over her face. Knowing she doesn’t have the muscle to withstand his attack for long, Rayla angles her swords to slide his own to the side. She shoves it aside and rushes forward, slashing once at the armor around his ribs and then at his forearm as he tries to right his weapon to defend. Solid metal panels protect his midsection and hips, but his limbs are only wrapped in chain mail and a few metal guards.

Her attack leaves only a shallow scratch on the actual armor, but the links of wire tear under her sharp blade. It comes away slightly stained with red.

Then she has to leap away when he retaliates. The first strike misses, the second she redirects away from her and the third sails through empty air as the elf leaps over her adversary. He spins around to parry her attack.

They go back and forth a while, slashing, blocking and parrying, attacking and defending in a deadly dance. Any misstep on her part would mean the end. Her armor is made to conceal her and boost her speed and agility, but it lacks any real protective layer. The hunter is weighted down by the metal and heavy weapon, so he’ll tire easier. Rayla only has to outlast him.

Her opening comes sooner than she expects. Frustrated, the human swings at her head carelessly, making it almost all too easy to duck under his attack. The elf springs to her feet at his suddenly unprotected flank and digs one blade into his armor. With a flick of her wrist, the other transforms into a hooked shape and she catches in on the man’s elbow. His weapon’s size and weight make it hard for him to change its momentum so by the time he registers what she did, Rayla is already heaving him over her shoulder.

He’s beyond heavy, but she manages to throw him into the dirt forcefully enough to dislodge his grip on the sword. The elf kicks it away quickly and leans down to hit the hunter on the back of his head with the hilt of her weapon. Backing away, she watches the prone figure cautiously, but he makes no movements except for slightly uneven breaths. Deeming him harmless for the moment, Rayla quickly spins around to look for Callum.

He’s not far, leaning on his bound hands a little behind her, eyes wide and chest heaving. The assassin flicks her swords away, ignoring the liquid coloring one of them. She can wipe it away later.

Hurried strides take her to her friend and she kneels down, drawing a small dagger from her belt and making quick work of the bounds around his wrists. The prince rubs his hands together to try and reestablish blood flow in them as she works on his ankles. The rope falls away easily and as she’s stashing away the dagger, she catches sight of the blood crusted on his leg. That’s going to need to be tended to.

“Are you hurt?” Rayla asks as she stands up and offers Callum her hand. Smiling gratefully, even if his eyes are unfocused, the prince takes hold to haul himself up, only to almost immediately sway on his feet and grab her shoulder for support.

“Just the ankle. And I think he hit me on the head.” He replies quietly, voice raspy and pained. He isn’t meeting her eyes.

Rayla opens her mouth to press for more information, when his gaze fall onto something behind her and his features contort in shock and fear. He shouts her name as she’s turning around, but she never gets to see what slams into her with the force of a galloping horse.

Wind rushes around her, her body numb from the hit, eyes open but unfocused. Flying through the air like this, without control, without her feet poised to land, reminds her of the first time she fell out of the tree.

It was a stealth practice session, the first to take place outside in an unfamiliar and complex environment. It was her first year of training so she and her classmates spent more time chasing each other in the forest instead of their teacher like they were supposed to. She wanted to get the jump on someone and took to the trees, climbing with practiced ease, until she was high among the branches.

She had always loved climbing and leaping from perch to perch in terrifying heights, whether it be on practice ropes or trees or even rooftops once. She felt right at home among them, but that day, when she enthusiastically pulled herself ever higher, one branch ended up being too dry and snapped when she put her foot on it.

Her body dropped, making her other foot slip and jerking her hands from their secure holds. In less than a second she lost all grip on the bark and found herself in a free fall with nothing to grab. Twigs scratched her skin and a shriek echoed around that she later recognized as her own. She thought about the hard unforgiving earth rushing up to meet her, eyes clenched in fear and limbs flailing uselessly.

Instead of a painful deadly crash, she slammed into something soft and warm. A hand snaked around her waist and held fast. Peeking her eyes open, ignoring the tears drying on her cheeks, Rayla gazed up to find a familiar face above her.

Runaan was standing on a branch only a few meters above the ground and his face was pulled into a deep frown. The young elf shrank from the expression, knowing she had messed up.

Instead of lecture, though, Runaan only leaped down and set her on her feet and she fought to steady her shaking knees. Her teacher straightened and gazed sternly at her.

“That was foolish. On an actual mission, there won’t be anyone to catch you when you fall. You have to save yourself.”

The memory cuts short when Rayla’s body collides painfully with a tree trunk. Her back arches, limbs flying back and the bark cuts her as she slides down. The elf lays motionless, fighting to take deep breaths as her body refuses to obey her commands. Every part of her is aching and she doesn’t want to get up.

_You have to save yourself._

Runaan’s voice reminds in her head. She has to get up, has to keep fighting. When she fell, he had waited until the last second to catch her, giving her time to try to save herself. But she only panicked and cried.

There’s no one to save her now. She has to be the one who catches herself.

Getting up feels like a fight all on its own and her vision is swimming when she finally makes it to her feet. Miraculously, she kept hold of her swords, but she has to use one to lean on. Far away sounds reach her but she has trouble discerning them. A mass of bright silver is moving in her vision.

Then, like a jolt kicking her back into awareness, she remembers she’s no longer in Xadia and the mass of silver is an enemy warrior aiming to kill her. Adrenaline shoots through her veins and she’s moving before she can really process any plan of action.

“-watch out!” Callum’s voice sounds too close as she ducks behind the tree she was thrown into, watching as the broadsword buries itself in the wood. The hunter wastes precious seconds pulling his weapon out, but she is still too disoriented to take advantage of it. Instead she backs away, raising her swords in defense.

The man frees his sword and charges without delay, taking wide fast swings at her, leaving himself exposed to show that he knows she isn’t composed enough to use the opening. Rayla backs away, deeper into the trees, dodging or parrying all of his attacks, until she stumbles on a root. She falls back and only instinct makes her tuck into a roll and handspring back to her feet. The familiar motion sends her heart racing with excitement and anticipation and her mind slowly clears.

When the next strike comes, she blocks it with one blade and the other slices at his bicep. The plates of armor on his shoulder leave it protected by nothing but chain mail, which tears under her attack. The man curses loudly and his arm drops to hang at his side, other hand clutching at it. Rayla feels strangely detached to see the dark red smear on her blade, so unlike berry juice.

With her enemy focused on his wound, she attacks again, relentless in her strikes even if most of them bounce off of his armor. She drives him back through the shrubbery. He jabs at her when she takes a second too long between slashes and the elf jumps up, vaults off of a tree and takes hold of a branch above her. Planting her feet on his chest, she puts all of her weight behind the kick that knocks the man onto his behind.

He retaliates but only strikes more wood. He’s not trained to fight in enclosed spaces with so many obstacles, while Rayla knows how to use the winding trees and thorny bushes to their full potential. She strikes like a snake, darting forward then quickly withdrawing before her opponent can register she is there. Like a wolf taking down an elk, she weaves between the trees, never attacking from the same angle twice.

But though the human may be wounded, he is not out of the fight yet.

“Is this how you filthy creatures fight? Attacking a man’s unprotected back instead of facing him honestly?” He snarls as she cuts through more of the chain mail. _Wear him down._

“Is this how you murdered the king? Never giving him the chance to defend himself?” Rayla’s foot misses as she races along a low branch. She’s left hanging by her hands, eyes blown wide and breathing heavily.

“Well? Nothing to say? Like unholy beasts like you know anything about honor.” He slashes at her dangling form, but only cuts air. The girl rolls away from him, jumping to her feet and pointing her swords at him.

“Is this how humans keep their honor, attacking children of their own kind?” She quips back, though her heart is racing with uncertainty. They aren’t far from the clearing, did Callum hear that?

She sees him falter for just a second before rage replaces hesitation. “They’re weak! They’re not fit to lead!”

His bellow echoes around the woods, sending up a flock of startled birds. Rayla shifts ever so slightly, blades never wavering from her enemy. “You should protect the weak! Isn’t that the whole point of knights?”

His lips pull back into a snarl and spittle flies from his mouth when he shouts. “There can be no weakness in the royal family, Viren will make sure of it.”

It’s a dark promise that sends shivers down her spine. This Viren sounds like someone that should be locked in a dungeon. Or someone long since lost to dark magic.

“The king was weak and his offspring are weak. They need to be put down so their weakness won’t spread. They’re like your disgusting kind, nothing more than a blight on the world!” He charges her senselessly, slashing blindly as he drives her back. His attacks are fast, furious and strong, making Rayla cautious to intercept. She backflips away instead and dodges around the next attack.

She’s beyond relieved Ezran isn’t there to hear what this madman is spewing and desperately hopes they’re too far away for Callum to hear. She doesn’t let herself get ruffled, focuses on the rhythm of the fight. Slice, block, duck, move to his side, strike at the armor, leap back.

The man grins savagely when he blocks one of her attacks, but his retaliation is too slow to catch her. He keeps talking, aware how much it is throwing her off her game.

“You might have actually done the kingdom a favor by taking care of the king, you should have taken the runts as well.”

Slice, dodge.

“Really, the only thing the old king did right was killing that monster, Thunder.”

Block, slice, miss.

Fire burns in her heart at the words, vision narrowing on the cocky human in front of her. The Dragon King was one of the kindest creatures she had ever known, even if she had never met him personally. He had kept Xadia save for a thousand years and he was expecting a son when he was brutally killed. He was a father and protector, and she will not stand for someone slandering his name after he gave his life to protecting them all.

“Monster? Only a monster could kill such a magnificent creature. He was only protecting his land, his subjects and human mercilessly murdered him and stole his son!” She knows her lips are pulled back over sharp canines in an ugly snarl, but she can’t find it in her to care.

“Only a monster, a beast like no other would deny my entire race the right to our ancestral lands!” The broadsword swishes through the air and nearly nicks her nose. She is getting sloppy.

“If we let you into Xadia you would destroy it! Your dark magic would leave nothing behind!”

“And good thing too. Xadia needs to be purged. Hell itself must have opened to allow impurities like your kind onto our land.”

“You murdered an innocent dragon! Your kind asked for this war.” Anger is leaking into her slices and her mind. She doesn’t want the war; she’s well aware the fault is on both sides, but her pride is running her mouth for her. Every one of her strikes is getting a little faster, a little stronger, aiming closer and closer to the few areas that she knows are lethal.

“A soulless beast can’t be murdered. It can only be hunted like game.” His slash is wide and slow, too slow to be an accident and Rayla, thoughts clouded by rage and sorrow for the fallen protector, surges into the opening, falling into the trap hook, line and sinker.

Both of her blades flash forward, one blocking his weapon, the other heading for his chest. She nearly misses the growing smirk on his face just before her blade connects with the dark purple stone in his armor. The stone cracks like glass, dark purple suddenly brighter, then a shimmering light, and suddenly the elf is flying back for the second time in this fight.

Her landing is softer this time, sliding along grass into a clearing. Her healing hand hits a stone and with a hiss, her sword is released onto the ground. Not paying it any mind, she springs back to her feet in time to deflect a heavy strike. Both fighters are breathing heavily, part from anger, part from shouting, their chests heaving and muscles burning. The rock on the hunter’s chest is a dark black, seeming to consume any light that hits it.

 _Dark magic_ , Rayla thinks grimly. Only dark magic can leave behind a blackness that thorough.

But the metal around it is bent and cracked, no longer serving as protection.

“That’s what’s gonna happen to all of you eventually.”

Rayla feels her legs begging for a break, her knees quivering ever so slightly. Whatever the stone did, it seems to have robbed of her energy. She needs to get away from him.

“We’ll find ways to counter your petty magic tricks with real magic and then, all of your land will be ours for the taking.”

He looms over her, winding his arm back for a final strike, blade aligned perfectly with her heart.

“Every elf and dragon hunted down like the animals you are.”

The heavy weapon starts falling, seconds from ending her life. Instincts hones through hours and days of grueling training kick in while her conscious mind flounders.

“Every last one. Starting with you.”

_You have to save yourself._

Eyes narrowed into slits, the assassin moves with newfound strength, springing backward to avoid being impaled and surging forward immediately after. The hunter struggles to pull his sword from the ground. Her blade flashes forward, meeting resistance and breaking it.

Both of their eyes widen in shock as her sword shatters his weakened chest plate and continues on, through skin, muscle and bone. Shocked silence descends, even the wind stilling as they both hold their breaths in shock.

Then Rayla stumbles back, her grip on her weapon tight enough to pull it free, beautiful silver blade coated in deep red. More red runs down the hunter’s front as he gasps and chokes, frantically grabbing at the wound, but the elf knows it’s useless.

She backs away as the human’s eyes glaze over and he falls backwards onto the grass. Her heart is beating frantically in her ears. She just did that. She killed him.

_I killed him._

She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from the motionless figure, blood rushing in her ears and legs shaking like dry leaves. She actually killed someone. It’s so different than impaling training dummies or hunting game for food. She doesn’t benefit from his death, but she stole his life anyway.

She’s distantly aware she’s beginning to hyperventilate, but her mind is too far from her body, like she’s only watching herself from the outside. Her sword clatters as it falls to the ground, her fingers too numb and slick with sweat to keep hold.

Only the seemingly thunderous crack of a dry branch in the distance brings her back to herself. Eyes snap up from the body to scan the clearing around her as a voice calling her name reaches her ears.

_Callum._

She’s moving before her mind can catch up with her body, gathering up both of her dropped weapons and retrieving a white piece of fabric from her pocket. With detached practiced motions, she wipes the blood off of her blade, mind blank and thoughts quiet. She manages to get most of it off, but she’ll need to rinse it in a river to scrape away some red that crusted in the ridges of the sword.

Silently, she tells herself that her companions don’t need to know exactly what she did. She won’t keep it a secret, if they press for information, they have the right to know, but she won’t bring it up.

 _It was in self-defense._ She tells herself uselessly. _He would have killed me and then the guys._

She wonders distantly who she’s trying to fool; there were different ways to avoid getting killed or injured. She didn’t need to go as far as she did. The fury from his words is fading, leaving behind a hollow feeling. This is exactly how she shouldn’t react to anger, turning it into violence and hate. As much of a bastard as he was, no one really deserved to die.

She turns to go, heart heavy in her chest, but resolved to continue their journey. _What matters now is Zym. He can stop this from becoming a regular occurrence._

Eyes landing on the downed human again, she makes a perhaps stupid decision. She can’t undo what she did and she doesn’t have to the time, energy or knowledge to give him a proper burial, but she can maybe lead the group of humans she met to him to do it. _Tonight, when we settle down._

For now, she steps respectfully around him and heads into the trees, following Callum’s calls.

_It was in self-defense only. I had to, to protect us._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually the scene that inspired this whole fic. I'm sorry if it's not what you expected or wanted, but I really wanted to explore Rayla's reaction to actually having killed someone. I tried not to make it too graphic, but you guys seem to be running for the high hills anyway.


	5. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Callum is reeling from the information he discovered while Rayla tries to deal with what was necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much action in this one. Mostly just a lot of waterworks and feels and angst. But I think we all saw this coming.

When Rayla meets up with Callum, he seems uncertain and quiet, almost as if he knows something terrible has happened. He’s a mess, clothes rumbled and dirtied, hands chafed from his bounds, ankle covered in blood and an impressively large bump on the back of his head. His face is glistening with something she thinks might be tears, but he’s already swaying on his feet so she doesn’t ask. He has to lean on her the entire time they walk back to where she left Ezran and Zym, hobbling along with his injured foot. Bait is balanced on his shoulder, the glowtoad croaking his displeasure regularly.

Rayla herself doesn’t feel like talking or joking, all too aware of the weight of her swords on her back. There are no traces left to indicate what she’s done, but they still weigh her down with shame. She shouldn’t have resorted to such fatal means. She should have found another way. She keeps telling herself that it was only to protect, to keep them safe, that she had no choice. But there’s always a choice and she chose to end his life.

_Well isn’t this what you trained for? To kill and dispose of threats._

She has dedicated most of her life to becoming one of the youngest and most dangerous assassins, but she can’t handle taking a life. Her gut churns at the thought of ever doing it again, but she wonders what else she will do when this mission is over. Throw away so many years of training and skills? Push past her compassion and morality to keep the borders safe from dark magic?

Her mind is far away still when Ezran bolts from a bush and crashes into Callum, wrapping his little arms around his brother and clutching at his shirt. The princes embrace for a while, though Callum seems to be running on autopilot, his mind detached from his body. Rayla stands some ways back, unsure of her place in this familial moment, until the young prince breaks away from his brother to tackle her in a fierce hug, quivering ever so slightly. Lowering herself into a crouch, her arms gently clasp around his back, hovering just above his shirt as if she would hurt him at the barest touch.

Her hands have taken a life with no hesitation. She doesn’t deserve Ezran’s worry for her.

When Ezran pulls away, another body settles on her legs with tiny claws, rubbing a fluffy head under her chin. Almost as if he could sense her distress, Zym starts cleaning her face with his tongue, hiding the tiny droplets of tears at the edges of her eyes. The elf gives a small watery smile, reaching up to run her fingers through the baby dragon’s mane.

Deeming her suitably cheered up, he purrs under her scratches, determinedly settling himself into her lap. Her smile slowly stretches into a real one and for the first time since she found out Callum had been taken hostage, Rayla feels her muscles unwind, the constant stress melting from her mind, adrenaline fading from her veins.

Suddenly Zym’s head shoots up and he leaps away from her, scrambling over to Ezran. The boy is currently rooting around the satchel full of food she brought, pulling out meat and fruit with wide excited eyes. Bait waddles to them, eyeing the pile of food.

_An assassin doesn’t decide right and wrong, only life and death._

She had believed it for so long, stood behind it when she infiltrated their castle, prepared to let nothing stop her when she leveled her sword with Callum’s neck. So why can’t she accept that it was necessary now, when it probably saved all their lives?

“Hey, Rayla? Can I talk to you?” Callum’s tentative voice cuts through her internal struggle. His eyes are lost, almost lifeless when she catches his gaze, something fragile in them. He looks to Ezran and Zym happily munching on fruit and fish and meaningfully tilts his head in the other direction. _Alone,_ he silently says.

She gives a nod and squares her shoulders as they move behind a grove of trees, out of earshot. There’s a weight on her shoulders, an ax chipping away at her courage. A dark foreboding hangs over her head, caught on her horns, telling of a crime forever etched on her swords. She wonders what Callum overheard, what the hunter told him before she got to them. Which of her crimes does he know about?

The prince stands facing to the side, as if he doesn’t want to turn his back to her, but can’t make himself face her. Rayla resists the impulse to stand straighter, look the better soldier. This wasn’t an interrogation, her friend just wanted to talk to her. Without a chance of his brother overhearing. Possibly to tell her not to get near them again. She steels herself for it, the judgmental look, pained angry voice, hateful words.

But there isn’t any shouting, Callum just takes a deep breath and holds his head a little higher. He looks at her at last, gaze a little stronger, voice a sad whisper. “You said that the binding would take your hand if – if Ezran lived.”

He seems as hesitant as her, stepping into frail territory of crumbling footholds. Neither of them wants to loose what they have, their friendship, this little group they have to keep safe. The elf releases a weary sigh. He deserves the truth from her, even if he already knows. She can’t lie to his face, but she’ll drag out this moment before the storm as much as she can. “Yes.”

His expression’s vulnerable, open. He knows what’s coming, has to if he’s asking questions this direct. But he wants to hear it from her. He’s giving her a chance to come clean. “Was, was there one – another–”

His voice cracks on the last word then fades away, but they both know what he means. She can’t put off the moment any longer; she finishes for him, steadying her words as much as she can.

“For the king.” It’s no more than a whisper, painfully loud in the silence between them. She can’t make eye contact with him, can’t bare to see the disgust, the hate or fear he might be looking at her with. Her shoulders sag with the weight on them, the regret, the shame, the worry.

A shuffle of fabric makes her look up, if only by instinct, to find Callum staring intently at the ground, teeth gnawing on his lip and arms crossed tightly over his chest. He’s the picture of uncertainty, of indecision.

The elf makes to take a step to him, but halts herself, unsure. She wants to say something, a thousand words that she can’t force out of her throat. She wants to apologize, plead for his forgiveness, but this isn’t something a ‘sorry’ can fix, it can’t be undone and the pain won’t disappear for a long time.

She wants to tell him she understands his pain, knows what it feels like to lose someone so close, had felt it too, first four months ago when her parents failed and now at having failed Runaan when he was counting on her. Her chest squeezes with sorrow as she remembers her mentor, strict but fair, because as much as she wants to believe they survived, that they are safe, she knows it isn’t true. They were one short, their flawless technique missing its final gear, unable to run smoothly. And even if they made it out, if they survived, they were still bound by their oath, they would hunt them down within days. They would not be willing to lose their hands for the enemy.

When the prince stays silent, she draws back a step, making the decision for him. “I – I’ll go. You don’t have to say anything.”

She’s giving him an out, a chance to think over what he wants to say, to do. Give him time to process what her team did, what she swore to do, to take in the entirety of what exactly he has lost. He should be aware of all of it if he ever says she can travel with them again. She doesn’t expect him to.

She takes another step back, motions slow as if not to startle him, the way someone would move around a frightened animal. She tries to walk away calmly, but her gait is too fast, too uneven and as soon as she’s out of his sight, she breaks into a sprint, leaping into the closest tree. The elf races along the branches with instinctive grace, eyes only poised straight ahead, pretending the moisture in them is from the wind buffering her face.

Is she running from her problems, her fears? Maybe, but she can’t bare to face them and lose them. Callum needs to process this information and, frankly, so does she. She has killed a man, her blades were coated in crimson, she might be about to lose people who have become her close friends very quickly. She needs to accept that. Needs to rebuild the walls around her heart to lessen the impact.

Some time later, when oranges and pinks are just starting to spread across the sky with the approaching sunset, she finally allows herself to slow down. She knows she hasn’t gone to far from where she left her frien – the princes; she has spent most of her run subconsciously moving in a haphazard circle around where she left them.

Her breathing is heavy and quick and it’s only partly from her sprint. She drops where she stands, curling up on a thick branch and leaning against the trunk. Sobs shake her body, but she doesn’t seem to have tears to cry. She repeats a hollow-sounding ‘ _I’m sorry!_ ’ under her breath. If she’s begging for forgiveness from the dead king, his sons or for killing the mercenary who’s name she didn’t even know, she’s not sure. She just keeps saying it.

She doesn’t know how long she would have stayed that way if a large figure hadn’t pushed through the undergrowth underneath her perch.

Nerves long since shot from the fear for Callum, the dark magic, the fight and now her emotions, she’s on her feet in an instant, blades drawn. Her horns scrape audibly on some wood above her. The figure below her snaps their attention upward, shoulders tensing.

The face that stares at her is familiar; this is the same woman who chased her through the woods after Rayla stole some of their food. Her face pulls into a sneer instantly, recognition clear in her stormy blue eyes and her hands are suddenly wielding two sharp curved daggers.

“You! Ya thievin’ girl! I’ll ha’e yer fingers cut off!” She shouts at her with an accent Rayla can’t recognize and barely understand, before she stills. She draws herself into a deeper stance and Rayla can tell she finally noticed her horns, pointed ears, tear-like purple markings and elegant elven swords.

She doesn’t show any fear, only curls her lip and spits on the ground. “Yer one of thos’, the scum crawlin’ from the borda’.”

Rayla opens her mouth to retaliate with a quip, but finds her mind drawing a blank. _You’re not here to fight_ , she reminds herself, crouching down to prepare to run, _you just need her to follow._

She leaps down from her safe spot, parrying the woman’s daggers midair, and lands behind her. She takes off on nimble feet, weaving around trees and shrubbery soundlessly, all the while hearing the human crash through the vegetation like a rampaging boar. In her mind’s eye, Rayla imagines a mental map of the forest, pinpointing her location easily enough when she comes across an ancient tree split down the middle that they passed a day ago.

She itches to move faster, to give her all into the sprint, but she knows she needs to make it seem like the human has a chance to catch her, otherwise she’ll get bored of chasing her. She’s closing in on the clearing when the woman starts shouting, at first little more than cuss words, then more creative insults, until she’s shrieking whole sentences.

“If mah brother were ‘ere, ya’d be a bloody smear on the ground, ya hear!”

Rayla’s step falters, her balance tips as those words register in her mind. But, no. It can’t be. Her lungs constrict as she finds her footing again and keeps moving, twenty meters away, then ten, five, four, three, two…

She leaps up, catching hold of a sturdy branch and swinging herself up. She takes off without pause, not looking back to see as the woman breaks through the last of the brush and skids to a halt in the clearing. She presses her ears flat to her head when a heartbroken cry echoes from behind her, a mournful wail of “Garrick!” that will haunt her for many nights to come. She pushes herself to move faster, almost misjudging a leap and slipping. She rights herself and keeps going.

It feels like all she’s making lately are mistakes, whose price lands on someone else to pay, or running from said mistakes. It’s tiring, but it’s easier than slowing down and facing the truth.

_Garrick._

Now she has a name to put to the face and she can’t decide if that’s worse or better. Now he’s no longer just another human, like any other, with no name, no memorable face. The name, two simple syllables, not even all that unique, bounce around her skull like a hyper squirrel. _Brother_. The woman has mentioned a bother twice already and Rayla fears the worst. She reacted so violently to seeing the body, face to the sky, blood staining metal armor, shards of purple scattered around.

She knows someone will miss him, will grieve for the life she took. She knows there will be a burial; his family will attend, maybe some friends or someone special to his heart. She knew this before too, but now she knows one of their faces. They’re no longer just a statistic, a fact that has little real weight. Now at least one of them is a real tangible person who is already mourning.

Somehow having heard her anguish was worse than just knowing it will happen.

A stitch forms in her side from her uneven breathing and she powers through it until she can’t anymore. She stops and leans on her knees, trying to get air into her lungs quickly enough, but it feels as though something is squeezing her windpipe, choking her. She sees his face again, hatred wiped from his features, eyes wide with fear and mouth agape in a silent scream.

_I had to._

It feels like a lie, even if she knows it’s mostly the truth. Even if there was a different way to end it, without death or injury, she hadn’t had the chance to find it. Whatever the purple gem she shattered was, it had drained her of energy, of the endurance she had spent her whole life building. Like any dark magic, it had connected to her own magic and drawn it out. Left her too weak and exhausted. She’ll recover, she knows that, but it will take time, a few days at least.

_Sometimes, there are no right choices._

It is one of the lessons she learned as Runaan’s apprentice. Sometimes, every choice is wrong and doing nothing even worse. She has to make the one that’s best for what she holds dear, the one that’ll keep every elf and dragon who she swore to protect safe a little longer. Mentally, she adds her little ragtag group to the list. She took no oath to protect them, but she needs no oath to know she’ll always do everything to keep them safe.

Her side finally stops stinging and Rayla straightens, detecting the gentle rushing of moving water. Did she accidentally come to the river in her race? She follows the sound until she comes upon a gently flowing clear stream. It’s not the big cascading current she came across earlier, but it’s better than nothing.

Mud threatens to swallow her feet as she steps closer, crouching at the very edge of the water. She dips her hands into it, shivering as the freezing liquid pools in her palms. She takes a sip of it, though this close to the bank it is full of dirt and tastes stale. Leaning as far out as she dares, the elf scoops out a handful from the faster current to splash against her face and clean off some of the dirt and grass she didn’t get to brush off.

Cold as the water is, it works wonderfully to startle her into awareness, reminding her why she wanted to find a river in the first place. Carefully taking out one of her swords, the one that was red with blood not long ago, she flips open the blade and pours water over it. Her fingers are careful as they pick at the crusted blood and grime, avoiding the sharp edges. There aren’t many ridges that can get dirtied, but the weapon is still a strange mechanism with many tiny gears that can be damaged by even grains of sand and she would rather not be rendered unarmed because of it.

Rayla continues on with the mechanical task, inevitably letting her mind wander. Now that the onslaught of emotions has passed, she can step back from the fear of having killed someone and can look at the situation mostly objectively.

She knows for a fact that the mercenary was there to _kill_ both Callum and Ezran and perhaps her and Zym as well. That in no way excuses her actions, but it gives reason to them. She didn’t have energy left from the dark magic, so she couldn’t have dragged the fight on for any longer. Callum was still there, hurt and unable to run, so she couldn’t have simply turned tail and fled.

Any of her other choices would have put Callum or both of them in more danger. _The choice that has the best results for the ones you protect._

She flicks her blade through its various forms before deeming it clean enough. She sighs, standing up and moving back between the trees, wandering what she will do now. It’s only instinct that makes her take to the trees again, conscience not satisfied but blissfully quiet. She’ll be thinking on this for many sleepless nights, but for now she still had one more thing to do.

Feet rhythmically thumping on branches, she lets her mind go blank, giving herself a few moments of peace. The calm before another storm.

Not even thinking about it, she finds herself heading back to her group, the motley crew that she grew to appreciate so much. She approaches silently, swords back in their holsters, feet barely brushing the forest floor. What is she doing back? Surely she isn’t expecting them to welcome her back, not with the information Callum has.

Still, she can’t convince herself to stop. The sun is slowly coming to rest on the horizon, light is fading. She expects to find them gone, or perhaps sitting in front of a small fire and sharing their grief.

Instead, she spots Ezran laying with his head on Callum’s pack, clutching Zym to his chest like every night. Bait is crouched down as close as he can, pressing up on Zym from the other side. The princes are out like a light, but the glowtoad opens his eyes, croaking in annoyance at her, eyes glaring heavily.

Everything is like it’s been for most of the nights.

The only one who’s missing is Callum; at this time he’d normally be frantically sketching into his book, desperate to get whatever he was doing finished before the weak twilight light fades completely. Not this night.

She can just see the blue of his clothes through the trees, past the grove where she left him. He’s sitting down, legs drawn up to his chest, head laid on knees. He is the epitome of misery.

Rayla steels her heart, squares her shoulders, already knowing how their talk would go. He won’t want anything to do with a killer, he’ll want her gone so she can’t hurt him or Ezran. But she still owes him an apology, however futile it is. She wants him to know she really is sorry for what happened.

She forces herself to make some noise as she closes the distance between them: a dry stick breaking, branches swaying and creaking, dry leaves crunching beneath her feet. He looks up slowly, cautiously, and when he turns around his expression is frozen somewhere between a fake smile and grief.

She keeps moving forward, gaze firmly locked onto her boots, until she’s less than a meter from him and has to look up to find a place to sit. He’s leaning against a sprout of young trees and she tentatively sits opposite from him, out of arm’s reach to give him his comfort zone. She takes a deep breath to start her flimsily planned apologies, but Callum beats her to it.

“I was worried about you.” He says softly, eyes jumping from her to the ground.

Her breath and planned words are knocked from her at his earnest words. _He was worried about me._ Even after he learned what happened. She doubts she would have ever had it in her to forgive in his shoes.

But she still has to say what she came to say. “Callum, I’m, I’m really sorry for what happened. I know sorry can’t fix anything, but I am. I wish I could have stopped it, I really do. I – I understand if you want me gone. I’ll leave you be, just – just promise you’ll look after Zym, he has nothing–”

“Do you know you’re probably the reason Ezran survived at all?” He says quietly, cutting straight through her ramblings. Her mouth clams shut, eyes wide with surprise. Because of her?

She stays silent, letting him continue at his own pace. He takes a deep breath and still speaks in the pained whisper; saying it out loud, acknowledging what has happened, must be hard for him. “You said it was you that the guard saw, that you revealed your team.”

She knows he doesn’t mean to, but the words are still accusing, a stinging reminder of her failing moment.

“That was the only reason we were prepared for being attacked. And you protected him, and me, when we were attacked.” The elf stays silent, taking in this new view on the tragedy. Did she save his life back then as well? When she still clung to the oath she made, to kill him for Xadia. The elves had come for both the king and Ezran, he would not have escaped if her team hadn’t been busy trying to get the king. Maybe she has helped save him, she tried to, at least.

Silence descends between them as Callum rests his head back on his knees and Rayla struggles with what to say. She can’t ease his pain, not really, it’s a wound that won’t begin healing until he gets some closure. And what can she offer? Nothing but words, kind words perhaps, but not the comfort he’s seeking.

Several times, she opens her mouth to say something, only to close it again. She settles into a more comfortable position and lets Callum talk at his own pace. Sometimes, one needs to talk about their pain and sometimes they need to sift through it on their own.

“Our mother passed a couple years back.” His voice is barely a whisper and she wonders if he even knows he’s talking out loud. She doesn’t say anything, but the new information cuts like a fine blade through her heart. No mother. No father now. They really only have each other.

“Da – my birth father, he – I don’t even really remember him.” Birth father? That’s not what she expects. So the king wasn’t his fist father. Or maybe he was, if his biological father had disappeared so soon after Callum’s birth.

He doesn’t elaborate any more, but she catches on to what he’s been thinking. He’s been through this type of loss before, he already knows the pain too. It can’t be any easier, of course nor, but he’s more prepared for it. Maybe it hurts even more, to know it can happen again so suddenly.

“It doesn’t get easier.” She finishes for him, giving a small sad smile when he looks up at her. In one fell swoop, in less than half a year, she has lost everyone she considered family as well. All of them had accepted that they would not live to see their ripe old age, but it still hurt all the same.

Callum faces her finally and she’s not entirely shocked to see tear tracks on his face, his lip dark with crusted blood from where he tore it open. His expression is so vulnerable, so young that she’s reminded of one truth she forgot. She accepted long ago that her family were warriors, sworn to the protection of their land and their people. She always knew they would die early, had time to prepare herself for it. She swore herself to put her life down for Xadia as well.

Callum never thought this was something that would happen. He’s been sheltered from the effects of the war, for better or for worse, and had probably never imagined that his father would end up a target. Or maybe he has, just expected the royal guard to be enough to protect the king. He never built walls around his heart to shield himself from heartache.

He must see something in her face, something that speaks of a kindred spirit.

“You said you wished your parents were dead.” He murmurs. “Do you really?”

Rayla tenses at the question, instinctively bristling before she forces herself to calm down. Perhaps she should have expected this question. She said it with so much conviction back then, but it must have sounded so cold to someone not knowing her thought process.

She exhales a long breath, wondering how to put her feelings into words. “No. Of course not. No one can wish the family they love dead. I don’t wish them dead, I wish they’d stayed to protect the egg, even if it cost them their lives.”

The prince stays quiet, continuing to worry his bottom lip. The elf keeps talking.

“They swore their lives to the royal bloodline. They would fall before anything or anyone got to the egg. They accepted that they would die protecting it. To turn from it is comes with consequences worse than death.” She remembers the day it happened, Runaan collecting her and the other trainees from their hut, telling them that there is a siege on the volcanic home of the dragons. That something isn’t right on the battlefield. She’d desperately wanted to be part of the fighting, but there were people, elves and dragons alike, who needed escorts to other kingdoms. She relented and went with the rules, only to later find out about the tragedies that had taken place. The Dragon King dead. His only egg destroyed. Her parents and only family disgraced and dishonored. She was picked for the journey to the human kingdoms the next day. “When they fled, it was an act of treason. They were branded traitors. Exiled. Haven’t seen them since.”

She keeps her explanation simple; this isn’t the time for her to get too lost in memories. She’s not the one who needs comforting.

The prince pauses, uncertainty clear in his expression. “That happened in the same battle that Thunder died?” _The same attack my father orchestrated and carried out without mercy?_ She can hear the unsaid easily enough.

It really is a cycle. She was separated from her parents because of Callum and Ezran’s father. She was part of the reason their father paid with his life. Silently, she promises she won’t let grief direct her sword again. She gives him a mute nod.

“How did you deal with the pain?” Callum asks, fresh tears glistening in his eyes. He barely choked out his words. “I feel like there’s a hole in my heart that’s swallowing everything.”

Yeah, that is an apt description of the feeling. An all-encompassing empty feeling that spreads like poison with no antidote. How she dealt with the loss? Simple answer is, she didn’t. She borrowed herself in paper-thin fake embarrassment and righteousness, and trained until her body gave up and forced her into sleep. She put every drop of energy into being ready for vengeance.

“I never did. I ignored it.”

It’s clearly not the response he’s looking for. But there’s no set way to ride out the pain. _Each to their own_. But bottling up as she did can not be a good one.

Lost in her thoughts, Rayla startles when she feels another body slide to the ground next to her. Callum drops to the ground with less grace than Bait and it’s only this close up that she can see his white-knuckled fists and hear his quivering breaths. He’s barely holding it together.

Gingerly, she sets a hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him without invading his personal space. She opens her mouth, whether to comfort or to question, she doesn’t know.

Instead, she’s shocked when Callum’s weight crashes into her shoulder, her clothes there getting wet with tears quickly. The dam seems to open as he gasps and clutches at her, as if afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go.

She wraps her arms around Callum, holding him tightly as he comes undone, weeping and sobbing as he buries deeper into her embrace. His whole body shakes, his hands grip her clothes and he seems to be holding on for life as he grieves. Chin rested on his head, Rayla releases silent tears of her own. She thinks of her parents, who she will never see, for the misguided hunter being buried somewhere in the forest. And she thinks of the man she didn’t know, yet swore to kill. Someone who could show no mercy on the battlefield yet raise such selfless and kind children. She doesn’t mourn for a king who let Xadia’s protector be cut down, she mourns for the father her new friend lost. She feels regret that it was Callum and Ezran’s father that died, not that the king paid for his mistakes.

She wonders if it makes her cold or selfish; the king made mistakes – they all do – big mistakes that got a lot of people killed and left more grieving. But is it really fair for the wronged party to administer the punishment? When they are blinded by their emotions, when they think the crime committed is inexcusable, when they won’t listen to reason? She isn’t sure.

He wasn’t the only one to make mistakes, though. She made them, over and over, one of the biggest being not stopping his assassination. And she didn’t get a sword to her throat, she got forgiveness, a safe place to open her heart a little.

She holds him deep into the night as he pours his heart out, waiting out the barrage of tears. Her uniform is dump with tears and what might be snot, the whole ordeal is taxing and messy, but internally she thinks that maybe this is what she needed back when her world started on its unstoppable spiral to hell. Maybe showing weakness and crying her heart out would have been better than pretending nothing happened. She won’t let Callum make the same mistake.

She can’t find the grief that was there before now, she had buried it too far beneath resentment and dedication. But she promises to help her friend. Help him get past this wound, make sure the scar it leaves is as thin as can be.

He never tells her to stay, to keep traveling with them, but he doesn’t need words to express that he forgives her for her part in this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one more chapter I'm thinking on doing, but I'm not sure. It's more angst, but this time centering around Ezran and Zym. Tell me if you'd like to see that or if this fic is good with this as its ending.  
> EDIT: nevermind. My creativity has run dry. I'll just leave it as it is. Won't really matter once season 2 is out.


End file.
